


Parallels

by KitMess



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-13 10:50:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16891170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitMess/pseuds/KitMess
Summary: In April 1974, three days before their first American tour was set to begin, Freddie and John disappeared without a trace.Ten years later, there’s a knock on Brian’s door.





	1. Chapter One

**_April 13, 1984._ **

 

Brian May lived an old man’s life at 37 years old. 

It wasn’t a complain.

Or _maybe_ it was.

Truth is, he didn’t know if things could get any better. His routine had become a part of himself, a sacred rite to be performed every day in the exact same order to allow himself to exist.

Wake up at 6:30 am. Shower, get dressed, breakfast plus coffee to go. Catch the bus to work. Work from 8:00 am to 4:00 pm with a lunch break at noon. Come back home and catch up on readings he couldn’t do during the workday from 5:00 to 6:00. 7:00 pm, watch the telly for an hour. 8:00pm, dinner. 8:30 – 9:00 read a book of his choice, which usually are work related. At nine, tea and then, bedtime.

There were good things. He liked his work. Or maybe _that_ could definitely be better. But he moved up from lecturer to reader recently and was well on-track to a tenure position in a couple of years so at least he was going somewhere. And even if his life could be boring, his work was always interesting. The universe was a never ending mass of enigmas and mysteries and he wanted to solve as many as he possibly could and inspire others to discover as much as they could before he became dust.

He needed to. To keep his mind occupied. To lower the volume of the could-have-been’s that tugged at his heartstrings every time he got even one second to rest. That’s why he kept busy, and why he has been following a strict, no-time-wasted routine for the last ten years.

He didn’t even listen to music anymore.

The man in the telly, a background noise, was talking about President Reagan’s call for a ban on chemical weapons, like he had been doing all week long. Brian barely looked up from the paper he was reviewing. He was hoping there could be a mention about the recent space missions but, as always, was reminded the general public couldn’t care less.

People don’t usually like that which they can’t understand, his senior professor at the university tended to say.

People are stupid, Brian decided. 

Just as he began feeling drowsy, he spared a look at the wall clock. It was 9:45 pm.

“When did it get so late?”, he mumbled to himself. The paper must have engrossed him so that he lost track of time. By 9 pm he was usually already tucked into bed, ready for an early rising and the work commute.

He took a deep breath and rubbed his face, feeling the coolness of his hands. A huff.

(It pissed him off to be reminded he still couldn’t remember where the fuck his favourite pair of gloves were.  It’s April alright, but he could still feel the cold, damn it! He’s old.)

Every day that passed felt like a month instead and life was going by at lighting speed.

He wondered if he’d make it to 47.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you twat,” he chastised himself, standing up to clean and accommodate his desk to finally call it a day.

(There were some thoughts that haunted him, and there was nothing he could do but run from them.

Run, even if his legs were tired and his lungs were heavy. Run, because even if he thought he’s not afraid of death, he knew he wasn’t ready yet.

_Alone, unknown, unaccomplished._

He was terrified of those words being his gravestone.) 

He shut the TV off, taking a moment to decide whether tea should be drunk or just skipped in favour of rescuing a few more minutes of lost sleep. He decided against keeping the tea. Then, again, had to decide against skipping the tea because he was already becoming too anxious about breaking his routine.

At 10:10 pm, he was brushing his teeth. As he caught his reflection on the bathroom’s mirror, a sigh escaped his lips.

( _You’re old_ , the voices in his head that never slept sang in the falsetto tone of a lost soul brother he didn’t like thinking about. _You’re old and alone and unknown and unaccomplished…_

_And_

_it is_

_your own_

_fault.)_

Brian threw his toothbrush at the mirror, glaring at the image of himself with hair short enough not to show any curl, wrinkly black bags under his eyes, and toothpaste foam drooling from his everlasting dry lips. He looked like a rabid, beaten beast.

He picked up the toothbrush, cleaned it, and resumed his previous action. Overall, he just felt tired. That, however, was just a state of being he never could escape from.

The bed awaited and, finally, at 10:30 pm the lights were out and his head met his pillow, and he closed his eyes. Sleep never came easy for him. But there was a routine for that too: he would recite what he read that day to himself, until he dozed off. Sometimes it took minutes and sometimes it took hours, but it was the only way he knew how to keep the obnoxious voices in his head quiet. 

He never had nightmares, but sleepless nights were worse.

At least he couldn’t hurt himself if he was asleep.

Brian would never know if he had managed to fall asleep or not before the knock on his door at 11:47 pm. He didn’t move. Either it could be a prank or bad news, and he didn’t want to confirm or confront neither. But the second knock, and the third, and the fourth in successive order became too much to ignore. By this time, it had to be bad news.

He willed himself to get up, put on a coat over his sleeping clothes (it was April but it was still cold, for fuck’s sake!) and went to open the door.

“Oh, fuck, this isn’t the house! Fuck, see, Deaky? I told you this couldn’t be it. We must be fucking concussed. Oh, _oh,_ I’m _so_ sorry for bothering you this late, sir! We’ve been in a little accident back there, you might have heard and – well – you can see we’re not looking our best. Oh, sir, we’re sorry, we’re out of your way now – _Come on, Deaky, darling, this is so embarrassing!”_

“Fred, this **_is_** the house,” a cautious, smaller voice, and a small, skinny boy came out from the shadows of the street before his companion could walk out, “See the number right here? This _is_ the house. Excuse us, sir, where’s Brian and Roger? I don’t mean to be rude, but...”

Brian couldn’t move, much less speak.

Maybe he was wrong about nightmares, maybe he did have them. Maybe he just suppressed them.

He couldn’t think of anything more agonizing than seeing the ghosts of the two friends he lost ten years ago so maybe that was the reason he always forgot them.

Ghosts from the past didn’t bring him relief. They didn’t bring him peace.

They brought him pain.

They were torment.

  

* * *

 

 

**_April 13, 1974._ **

 

The American Tour was all they had been talking about since the start of the year, even with their second album dropping just a few weeks earlier; after all, the album had been complete since the middle of last year, only postponed by issues with the record label.

There were a few shows in-between, but the announcement of the on-coming tour was the first big step into truly making it big. It brought a sense of accomplishment all of them _\- but mostly Brian -_ were needing so badly.

So of course it was Brian fretting over every single detail. The song list, the tour map, the places they were going to play – granted, only as an opening number, but what band did not have humble beginnings? _We have been humble enough,_ Roger would say, hungry for more. In the end, Brian thought, it didn’t matter as long as it was still happening right now. 

The passports were a top priority and _of course_ Brian was one millimetre away from completely losing it when he found out, as Freddie said nonchalantly, that he thought it was possible he might have lost it – _misplaced it,_ were the words Freddie used, but all Brian heard was ‘ _complete and utter irresponsibility’_.

Brian, being Brian, masked the heart attack and hid his real thoughts on the matter, keeping calm, and kindly asked his front man to please locate the offending thing.

“We’re leaving in two days, Fred. It would be better if you figure out where it is sometime _soon_.”

 _Sometime soon_ meaning right this instant, Freddie was clever enough to understand. Under normal circumstances, Freddie would have blown Brian off, labelling him as an anxious overthinker, but he had already seen the guitarist’s barely-hanging-there demeanour of the last few days. And Freddie would never admit it, but something about Brian’s scientific background and love for comic books gave him the vibe of mastermind-villain-to-be, and Freddie did not want to be the person a mad Brian would use to test his death ray on first.

“That is a great idea, darling. I’ll see to it right away.”

“Take John with you,” Brian suddenly added.

John, the youngest and newest addition, looked up from his site on the couch where he was comfortably reading one of Roger’s magazines. They were boring and obviously only purchased for the gratuitous female nudity, but the only other reading material in the house were Brian’s impossibly smart books, so he had no options really.

“Why?” Freddie asked, raising an eyebrow as he was reaching for his coat. Why, indeed, wanted to ask John as well, but was too shy still. At 22 years old, he was six years younger than Freddie, the oldest, and five years younger than Brian, the de-facto mother hen of the band. He had been with them for three years already, but still found it difficult to speak up to an overbearing Brian on the verge of committing murder.

“Because,” ‘ _because I want someone to look after you’_ Brian wanted to say, but couldn’t bring himself to admit. He didn’t want to offend Freddie, but he, like Roger, could be too wild for their own good sometimes, “it’ll be easier.”

Once again, Freddie read the message underneath, and once again, had to fight back an ill-mannered response. Fighting Brian wouldn’t do any good. Besides, it was only John, whose company he enjoyed and might just as well make the trip to his parent’s house more entertaining. He nodded and motioned for the younger boy to stand up and go.

John’s resigned sigh and “ _Alright then”_ as he followed Freddie to the door was the last time Brian heard from them.

For the next ten years, Brian would have to craft a routine to keep himself occupied just to silence the voices that accused him of sending them to their deaths.

 

* * *

 

**April 14, 1984**

 

John called out a gentle “sir?” for the fourth time, but the man at the door kept silent. The youngest exchanged a look of concern with Freddie and, at the same time, caution. He double-checked but he was completely sure they were in the same house they had left just hours ago.

The trip to Freddie’s parents had been uneventful. Mostly the singer humming and retelling anecdotes about the days as a roadie for Smile, and how badly he had wanted to be on the band since then. John already knew all of them, but chose to listen as Freddie seemed just too happy telling them. Freddie liked the spotlight, and John was more than okay with being his audience.

The trip back home wasn’t as smooth.

John couldn’t remember what had happened. His right ear still buzzed from the sudden thunderclap of the explosion. They had been standing next to the road to catch the bus back to Kensington, just a mile behind Heathrow. Three other people were standing next to them, but none were left standing after the powerful blast blew everyone off their feet.

He remembered landing on the road, the scratching sound of the cars trying to either turn around or stop before running over them and the smell of fire that burnt his nostrils. And then the world stood quiet, unmoving, a blurry chaos of smoke and blinding light. He couldn’t hear but his own thumping heart against his ribcage, and his mind screaming inside his head one simple word: run.

Except he couldn’t. His brain was screaming and his heart was racing but his body wouldn’t oblige. He looked around and then to the asphalt where he was lying, to his hands embed with dirt and pebbles and blood. He pressed them against the pavement. It didn’t hurt, because he couldn’t feel.

Someone put their hands on his shoulders, but John couldn’t even make out their face. A gauzy silhouette moving what should be its lips – John thought he was trying to talk to him but he couldn’t understand the words. The unknown figure was now trying to force him to his feet. John wanted to refuse, scared, but his paralyzed body couldn’t resist the force of whoever was now dragging him across the road into a patch of woods.

John was _unconsciously conscious_ of the moment his body was laid back against a tree’s trunk. The air still smelt of burnt metal and inferno. He coughed. The explosion, the fire, the blast, then Freddie hauling him and trying to shake him awake until he could move again. That’s the first memory he had. Freddie’s terrified wide eyes, road rash face and ruffled hair as he was trying to bring him back to reality.

“John? John? Deaky? Boy, can you listen to me? Darling?”

Freddie’s hands cupped John’s face. Freddie saw the trail of blood coming from John’s right ear, and his worry made him forget not to bit his lower lip. He stroke gently the younger’s cheek, hoping to elicit any response from him.

Another minute passed before John could focus his eyes, and the blurry figure became the frontman, and although he couldn’t think of anything to say, his hands grasped Freddie’s over his face.

It sounded lame, but that was the first time he could remember being hugged by anyone other than his family.

Then they had walked, as far from the explosion as they could, through patches of woods and houses they couldn’t recognize. At some point, Freddie suggested they go back to his parent’s, and John agreed. Problem was, none could figure out which way it was. John couldn’t hear from one ear and Freddie was having trouble reining in a panic attack.

As disoriented as they were, they knew they had to go forward. Hours passed. Before they knew, it became night. John said maybe they should stop, and wait. Freddie refused. He needed to keep going to keep himself together.

(A lyric inside Freddie’s head, with his heart beating to it’s rhyme, 

“ _Keep the boy alive, oh it will take all you’ve got and some but, honey, you will survive._ ”)

After what seemed like hours – or years – they managed to stumble unto a Thames curve, which meant they were at the very least half of their way to Kensington. They couldn’t find any road so they settled to follow the river’s basin until something familiar came into view.

They walked for another three kilometres, between houses and buildings John didn’t remember – but then again, maybe he never paid attention – until Freddie finally found their street name. The street wasn’t quite as they remembered, either, but since everything had been a blur for the past hours, a house painted in a different colour wasn’t top of their problems.

However, a man they didn’t know opening the door to their flat was, indeed, a problem.

“Excuse me, sir, where is Brian and Roger?” John asked, again. 

“Calm down, Deaky. Look at us,” Freddie said, soft but loud, “We look worse for wear, dear. We’re scaring this gentleman.”

“He’s scaring me!” came John’s outburst. He was barely holding on, and needed some respite desperately, to come home and find a way to make the world stop buzzing, for God’s sake. He didn’t have time to deal with anybody’s else’s tragedies right now.

“Freddie? Is that really you?”

Freddie, who was trying to contain John with his hands on his shoulders, looked over his to the man at the door.

“Freddie Mercury in the flesh, sir. I’m sorry for my friend’s manners, we had a nasty day.”

Just before John could interject that they didn’t have anything to be sorry for since that man was the one breaking into their house, the man at the door spoke. 

“I’m Brian.”

“ _Excuse me?”_

“What did he say?” John, who could barely hear, only saw confusion on Freddie’s eyes as the blood drained from his face.

“I’m Brian,” the man at the door repeated, clearer and louder, a hand passing through his imaginary long curls, “And you’re dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo. It's been so long since I've written anything, even longer since I've attempted anything longer than two chapters. BUT I've got this idea I can't shake off, and it's all planned out, all I need is to just actually write it. And since I've got a couple of months before my adult life resumes, well, I figured I'd give it a shot. 
> 
> I'm no sci-fi writer so don't expect anything too.. technical. Just a warning. Also, english isn't my first language so please forgive any minor (hopefully) mistake and kindly point it out to me so I can fix it and learn from it :) thaaaanks. See ya soon.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos. Just a clarification, I wasn't going to tag any pairing yet because I don't plan on focusing too much on romance, but because there might be some implications in this chapter I'm going ahead and tagging this as Roger/John.

**Chapter 2**

Straightforwardness had never been one of Brian’s strengths. He preferred to be polite and find the most constructive way to offer his advice, even when it wasn’t positive feedback. 'Honesty is not the same as kindness', he heard once. However, his mind could not find any easier, gentler way to inform the two familiar strangers that they had been presumed dead for the past ten years.

Among the uncomfortable silence that followed, his mind immediately reacted and reminded him to invite them in (or, in John’s case, almost drag him) and, for both the lack of anything better to say and an attempt to nurse the shock, offered to prepare hot tea.

Brian came back with a tray carrying three steaming cups and two damp clothes, which he deposited in the coffee table. He stared at the boys sitting in the couch and then sat between them, turning to John first.

“There’s blood on your face and neck,” he pointed out, grabbing one clothe to clean him up and find where it was coming from.

As John was back to his reticent, uncommunicative state, Freddie answered for him.

“I think his eardrum burst. He only hears me when I yell.”

Half of him still believed this to be a nightmare, but Brian felt compelled to take care of ghost John as good as he could. He looked shaken and vulnerable, and young. Even younger than in the the memories he kept of him.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Brian whispered, tired.

Nex to him, ghost Freddie huffed. He took the other clothe and began cleaning his face.

“You’re the one who’s aged like fifty years since this morning, darling, so we should be the ones confused,” the singer said. A groan escaped his lips as the clothe touched the abrasions on his face but he rubbed them softly to wipe the dirt off.

The words – _fifty years_ , and the implication – _you’re ol_ d, ticked Brian off the wrong way. “I’ve aged ten years, which is exactly the numbers of years you have been dead,” then, forgetting about his manners, he added, “if anything, you look like relatively well-preserved corpses.”

“You mean zombies, dear. Corpses don’t talk,” Freddie said matter-of-factly. The last 24 hours had been so fucking crazy, he decided there could not be any logic explanation for them anyway, so along with the lunacy he went, “but no, we’re alive. Our pulses are very real and very fast, I’ve checked. And see?,” he showed Brian the towel with stains of blood and dirt, “fresh blood.” 

Brian finished removing the blood from John’s face, but John remained unresponsive. The elder studied him with concern and put a hand on the younger’s shoulder, squeezing tenderly. He remembered the quiet, discreet bassist, who even as timid as he was always knew how to be ferocious when needed. It hurt looking at him distraught.

“Brian, darling, give him time,” Freddie spoke again, grabbing a cup of tea. “We’ve been through a lot these past hours – or years, according to you.”

Years, yes. Brian turned around to face Freddie and felt both a sudden shock of nausea and his anger leaving at the same time. His eyes scanned the room until they stumbled upon the calendar on his wall, the unforgiving year showing in big black numbers. 1984.

An uneasy silence fell when Freddie’s eyes chased Brian’s look and caught sight of the calendar as well. The singer left his cup back at the table.

“My, my. I know you are smart, and if this were a prank only you could pull it off. But you wouldn’t be this mean, right?”

There was a trembling undertone to Freddie’s voice. Brian didn’t remember ever hearing the frontman scared before.

Brian held out his hand to touch Freddie’s, but retreated at the last minute and his fingertips barely brushed over his skin. “I’m sorry I’ve been blunt. I couldn’t think of any other way to break it to both of you. Part of me still thinks this is just a bad dream.” 

“Really? Which part?” Freddie wondered aloud, an eyebrow raising, “Us being dead or us being alive?”

When Brian couldn’t respond right away, Freddie resumed scrubbing his face with all the grace he could muster given the decidedly awkward situation. He couldn’t look at the guitarist’s direction, but the distinct feeling of being punched in the gut took over him.

“Fred…” Brian dragged out of his mouth, but said nothing else.

“It’s alright, dear. You might have broken Deaky, but we’ll fix him. I guess… we’ll have to find a way to fix us all, to be honest.”

 

* * *

 

At some point, John decided to close his eyes and disconnect from the world completely. He scared the crap out of the others who thought he’d passed out, but John didn’t care. He couldn’t make out the words they were saying – Freddie screamed and the man claiming to be Brian shook him and said something, but what did it matter? All John wanted was to wake up from this nightmare.

He felt the moment a pair of arms snuck under his arms and knees and lifted him. And had he been paying attention, he would have heard Brian say how little he weighed and Freddie laugh about how thin they all were.

_(I always forgot how young he was_ , Brian said, sheepishly.

_He_ is, Freddie corrected. He never forgot.)

John knew he was being carried, and under any other circumstances he wouldn’t have allowed a stranger to touch him. But he was exhausted, scared, deaf and in pain, so he gave in. There was a thick wall of smoke on his mind, his thoughts blending into the darkness of his fears. His chest tightened. Behind his closed eyes, he relived everything.

The explosion, the blast, the cars, the road, the woods, the walk. The explosion, the blast, his bloody hands, the unnerving silence, the smoke. The explosion, the blast, the fear, the fire, Freddie’s scared eyes…

The explosion, the blast, the stranger at the door.

Sleep wouldn’t come easy that night, if it came at all.

* * *

Brian deposited John on his own bed. The house had two bedrooms, but he never used the other room other than to store old books or things he no longer needed, and largely avoided the memories it brought. 

Careful, the older man tucked the younger under the sheets, trying to make him as comfortable as possible. He didn’t know how else to help John, but he hoped a good night sleep made him feel better.

“Will you tuck me into bed too, dear? I’m getting very jealous,” Freddie whispered next to his ear and Brian almost jumped with surprise and pushed him away. The teasing expression on the singer’s face vanished immediately, and he backed down at once, “I’m sorry, Brian. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Brian said, ashamed of his reaction, “it’s just – I’ve been alone for quite some time, you know? I grew unaccustomed to human contact. It’s alright. You’re my friend.”

Freddie wasn’t reassured. It made him a little suspicious – the situation was weird enough, but now he started wondering if this man was truly who he claimed to be. If they had somehow walked for ten miles and ten years in a couple of hours, how could he know this aged Brian wasn’t from another dimension and probably without good intentions?

“Where’s Roger?” he asked instead, sitting down at the bed next to John. Maybe they weren’t out of the woods just yet.

It was Brian’s turn to step back.

“I haven’t seen him for some time,” the former guitarist said in a lower tone, not wanting to wake John up.

“What do you mean? Did he disappear as well?” Freddie inquired, folding his arms in front of his chest.

_What if this man murdered Roger? What if he is an impostor?_

_Or what if Brian had truly gone mad and became a supervillain who messed with time and space and made the explosion happen and was now here to finish off his work?_

“No, he did not disappear. Like I said, it’s been ten years, Freddie. A lot’s changed. We had arguments.”

Brian and Roger arguing sounded plausible. In fact, it was the first normal thing Freddie had heard since he came through that door. And if it had been ten years, Freddie couldn’t expect them to still live together, especially since the band didn’t seem to have survived. 

The band. It suddenly downed on Freddie. “Oh, Brian, dear, I’m sorry.”

“No, Fred, really, it’s not your fault. We could have handled it better. Roger – he’s just a bit of a prick, you know that.”

The singer chuckled. He knew for a fact Roger could be a prick, but was also sure Brian wasn’t the most easy-going person in the world.

“Not that. America,” as soon as the word came out of Freddie’s mouth, Brian’s expression changed. He looked away, fidgeting with his one hand, and once more passing the other one through the long hair he didn’t have anymore, “I never made it back with my passport, so you never made it there. Did you?”

America seemed so long ago, an it-happened-once-in-a-dream land. One more thing on the list to never think about again. A big could-have-been that came and went as fast as the snap of two fingers.

“No,” he breathed, “but it’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

( _It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault._

_Like a mantra, like a band aid on a wound that was already infected._

_It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault._

_But it had to be someone’s.)_

A heavy silence took hold of the room, only broken by soft whimpering coming from John. It distracted both Brian and Freddie, with the latter climbing further into bed and placing a hand on John’s head and running his fingers through his brown hair, much like he remembered his own mother comforting him when he was a small child.

“Sleep here with him. I’ll take the couch. You can also have a shower, if you want,” Brian said, walking to his closet and looking for a change of clothes for the two of them. “You’ll sleep more comfortable in these. John can also change when he wakes up,” he paused, turning on his heels and staring at the _boy_ in the bed, “but don’t let him have a shower just yet. I’m not so sure about his ear. I think he’s not supposed to let water get in…”

Freddie nodded, making sure John was okay before getting up again. “We still have a lot to talk about.”

Brian knew. But he needed to sleep or at least, have some time alone to process. He still needed to go to work in a few hours, even if only to ask for some days off. There were lots of things to figure out.

A now unavoidable reencounter rose to priority. He wondered how many years had truly passed since the last time he saw Roger.

 

* * *

 

The pub at the middle of the street was packed this day and time of the week. Broken lights illuminated only part of the letters in the name – Tenement Funster – an incredibly pretentious name, a good part of its clientele thought, but it still served decent, cheap drinks, and was known for it’s reputation of only allowing _entertaining -_ and not precisely always good _-_ bands to play the night away.

Brian had stood in this same spot, right by the corner of the street, many times before. Trying to muster the courage to complete the journey, he had never found any reason strong enough until tonight. He had heard all about the place – even a few co-workers of his, those with _lives_ of their own, had spent one or two nights inside, unofficially with one or two of their female students. 

_Baby steps_ , Brian murmured to himself, _one foot forward then the other_. Walk. Breathe. Go On. Since when was it so hard to think about seeing Roger?

_I WISH YOU WERE DEAD INSTEAD!_

Unwelcomed flashbacks inundated his mind and he froze just a few steps before the entrance. Brian’s wall, which he had spent a decade carefully building to besiege the memories he couldn’t afford to ever look back on, on the price of keeping himself alive, was already fragmented and on the verge on completely falling apart. All it needed was one more push.

Or punch – depending on whoever was in charge.

He started to turn the other way. He couldn’t do it. There were rifts too deep to salvage, and unforeseen deaths were completely different from the graves you dig with your own two hands.

( _Force,_ the voice in his mind returned _, the death you forced with your own two hands. And there was no memorial, no time to grieve. Just a shouting match and clothes and belongings thrown out of your life._

_Then, as if to celebrate_ – the voice insisted – you also _killed_ off your hair, _darling_ , remember?)

He halted midway and, with a deep breath, walked the space left to the door. While he had imagined the inside to be very glamorous and picturesque, very Rainbow Roger, it surprised him to see quite a standard pub. The stone-stacked bar was the only overdo he saw, and it wasn’t precisely out of taste. The rest of the place was plain gray walls and wood tables before a raised stage where a local band with police uniforms were playing a raspier cover of Every Breath You Take.

Sting would be ashamed.

Deciding to ignore the offending tune, Brian resumed his task of trying to find his old bandmate through the sea of younger people, alcoholics and misfits who filled up the place. He looked behind the bar, but the only people working the drinks were a college-aged girl who hadn’t seen the sun in months and a middle-age man who needed to wash his hair. Pausing to think with which he’d have better luck, Brian approached the man.

“Hey. Where’s Roger?” he asked, almost yelled, trying to be heard above the singer’s call for Roxanne not to wear that dress tonight. He sounded like his fucking throat was bleeding.

“Not on my pockets,” the greasy man answered, pouring vodka into two glasses simultaneously. “What do you want?”

Brian hadn’t touched a drink in ages. However, he sensed the man would be more willing to answer him if he was a paying customer. “A beer, mild. Please.” 

A beer was shoved up in front of him in less than ten seconds. Brian guessed his efficacy must be the reason Roger put up with his appearance and manners.

“Do you know where I can find him?” Brian tried again, grabbing his mug but not drinking a drop. He couldn’t risk being impaired in any way.

“Upstairs in his office, shagging some guitarist.”

Brian almost dropped his beer.

“Oh. Right,” he steadied himself. It was a good thing the bar tender wasn’t looking at him, or he would have seen the blush spread across his face. Screw composure; he took one big mouthful of beer. 

_Freddie would be aghast to see you all rattled about sex_ , the voice on his head echoed. _The problem’s you haven’t had any in years. There’s plenty of people in here. Choose._

As if in cue, the girl bartender was now looking at him.

_God, is she pale,_ Brian thought _. She would do,_ his inner voice added _._

“You looking for Rog?” the girl asked. Brian didn’t have to nod, as she was already pointing at something behind him. 

And there, standing with a cig on the lips, and as if he hadn’t aged one day, stood Roger Taylor, elegantly disheveled blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. 

Blue eyes that had already spotted him and were not happy.

* * *

 

Though not too much in appearance, the years had indeed passed through Roger. Rather than make a scene in the middle of his own pub, like he surely would have done ten years ago, he put out the cigarette and beckoned for Brian to follow him upstairs without saying a single word or throwing a single punch. That, Brian thought, must be character development.

The astrophysicist obliged, since this was the drummer’s territory and not his. The floor atop of the stairs was poorly lit, and could almost pass like a perfect murder setting. It was _almost_ funny to Brian, who was half expecting Roger to trip over something since he always had very poor eyesight. Or maybe he was just too nervous to be thinking anything else.

They finally arrived to what seemed to be an office. Roger opened the door and turned on the light, making way towards his seat behind a desk. All the décor was as flashy as Brian had expected the pub downstairs to be, and finally, he looked at Roger’s eyes who was gazing at him intensely.

“What are you doing here?” He asked coolly, repositioning a cig back on his lips. His speech was a tad slurry; unmistakable sign he had been drinking. That, and the stench of alcohol Brian could smell a mile away from him.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Brian Manners-First May began. Roger grumbled, and almost interrupted with what undoubtedly would have been an obscenity, but Brian kept on, “It’s been some time.”

The blond snorted. “It’s been ten fucking years. Quit the pleasantries. Tell me what the hell are you doing here before I have you thrown out.”

“Then you should have thrown me out downstairs. I’d shove you out that window before you could ever lay a hand on me.” 

_That_ wasn’t pleasant at least, but it was enunciated very respectfully. Brian remained composed, but frowned his brows and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He wanted to talk to Roger, but he was not going to take his shit. They were grown men, and they had been friends. Very good friends. Sadly, he felt that was playing against him right now.

“Oh, yeah?” Roger jumped out of his chair, fuming. He chucked his cigarette without putting it out, and marched his way toward the taller man. Only Brian Fucking May would dare approach him after all these years –

 

(" _It’s done, Rog. What use going on without them?” Brian played a few chords lazily, sitting on the couch of their shared house. A stock of books and an open notebook rested on the coffee table in front of him._

_“We did it once without Tim already. We both can sing. We’ll find another bassist. The songs are good. We can still make it.” Roger, standing in front of him in clothes he hadn’t changed for a week, face worse for wear after not sleeping for the last two days and shaking slightly, practically begged._

_Brian’s expression hardened in an instant and he stopped playing. “Just like that? Half of them are Freddie’s songs. They only work for him. And don’t – John is not just another bassist. How could you even suggest that – “_

_“They’re gone, Brian! They_ **_were_ ** _Freddie’s and Deaky_ **_was_ ** _not just another bassist but they’re gone. We aren’t. America – “_

_“They’re gone? That’s it? Their bodies aren’t even cold yet and you –_

_“There were no bodies.”_

_“Why would you say that?!” Brian shoved his guitar aside and jumped off the couch, a mad look upon his brown eyes. Roger backed one step down, surprised._

_“Because there weren’t – Brian, you’re overreacting – anyway, that’s not the point –” Roger, fatigued, with one too many drinks down and one pill too many, done with the grieving and the crying and the pain he felt at every heartbeat that reminded him he was still alive while Freddie and John weren’t, was desperate to forget and start anew because otherwise, he could not carry on. “We can do it without ‘em, if you hear me out…”_

_“No. That’s impossible. Queen’s done, Roger.”_

_“It’s not done, listen to me! We don’t need ‘em!”_

_“We don’t need them?!” Brian rose to his whole height, hands clenched so tightly a few of his fingernails dug into his skin. “Get out.”_

_“You’re being impossible! The past is the past, we can get through this, we can go to America like you wished, we can do it without ‘em…”_

_“Right now, all I wish is you were the one dead instead so you could leave me alone.”)_

After all these years, with that self-righteous tone and attitude. Roger was not having any of it. He was the one doing the throwing this time around and he felt like starting with punches. He walked closer, just to be able to see Brian’s face clearly before his fist connected with his nose, but Brian spoke first.

“Rog. It’s about Freddie and John. I need you to come with me.”

The sound of their former bandmates’ names lowered Roger’s rage a little. “What ‘bout ‘em?”

“I need you to come with me, please. For old time’s sake.” Brian pleaded. “I wish I could tell you more, but it’s just easier if you see it yourself. I wouldn’t bother you if this wasn’t important.”

Roger stayed put, pondering his options. There were too many chemicals in his body preventing his mind of any coherent ideas, but Brian was there, in front of him, after many years of becoming a shadow that pushed him out of his life. Roger couldn’t either feel or control his eyes watering up.

“Can I punch you after?”

Brian could see the tears. Knowing it was only half because his friend was too drunk to hold back his emotions, he didn’t mention it.

Besides, if that was what Roger needed to feel better, “Yes. You can punch me after.”

It was long overdue anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll dial down the drama. Hopefully they'll reconnect right away! ... or not...


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's reunited but no one is actually happy.

Freddie opened the door to the room that had been Roger and John’s just yesterday, or ten years ago, depending on who you ask. The first thing he found was that Brian did not joke when he had wished him luck _finding_ anything. Boxes were stocked up over more boxes, there were piles of books on every cranny available and there were clothes and old rags serving as rugs, the floor below barely visible.

He grimaced. Freddie Mercury did not care for disorder.

“That tool, leaving our stuff to rot in here…” he complained under his breath, as he made his way into the cardboard jungle. Careful not to trip at first, he ended up screaming his lungs out when he stepped over _something_ under a mislaid shirt. He was still cursing every one of his ancestors when John skidded to the door.

“What happened? Are you alright?” he called, still dressed on his torn and dirty clothes from yesterday. He had slept for over 20 hours, if Freddie was to be believed. To him, it felt like barely twenty minutes.

Time and its perception were a mysterious, complex business.

Freddie plopped down over a sturdy looking box, examining his throbbing foot cautiously, but there seemed to be no permanent injuries. “It’s nothing, Deaky, dear. Just trying to find some of our stuff. Brian said he kept everything. Poor sod, couldn’t find the heart to throw it out…”

John ventured a few steps in, and was startled when Freddie yelled at him to beware. Since he was also barefoot, John stopped and crouched on the floor, picking the shirt up to discover a power plug. The younger showed it to Freddie, who scowled.

“Off with it’s head,” he proclaimed dramatically, “it almost pierced my foot!”

John managed a quick smile at Freddie’s theatrics. Trying to accommodate the plug where it wouldn’t do anyone more harm, he pulled at the cord to see to what it belonged. A few boxes rattled and two comic books that were atop of them fell, but a medium, brown wooden box seized his attention immediately.

Slowly, John put the other boxes aside and picked up the small amplifier he knew so well. It had collected some layers of dust, but looked as solid as he remembered. He studied it carefully, searching for any fault, but couldn’t find any other than it being abandoned.

“Oh! Isn’t that Brian’s little amp?” Freddie leaned forward, interested.

John grunted. “It’s the amplifier I built.”

“Yes, but Brian _kidnapped_ it, didn’t he?” Freddie reached out for the gadget, taking it off John’s hands to observe. “Funny little thing,” he held the amp above his head and against the light for a good two minutes before returning it to John. “Well, at least he didn’t throw it out, right? He just left it here to be forgotten, like us. Figures.”

John stayed quiet. He hadn’t said a single word about their predicament yet, no matter how much Freddie had been prodding him to talk since he woke up. Like a bittersweet déjà vu to their bus ride before the explosion, the younger man was letting Freddie do all the talking. This time around, though, the singer was not appreciating it.

“How’s your ear feeling?” Freddie asked as he stood up to continue the search for his treasures, as he preferred to call his clothes, “is it still buzzing?”

John’s answer was a faint “mhm”.  A vein on Freddie’s forehead popped out. Out of the corner of his eye, Freddie spied John rummaging through the boxes he moved to get to the amplifier, and took that as a sign he was recovering.

“If you want to take a shower, I’ll keep looking. I think that would definitely help you feel better. Ooooh, if only I could find my bath salts! Do you reckon Brian would throw them away? Of course he would, that ungrateful bastard! Very little appreciation for the true arts, other than his stupid guitar!”

John tuned him off. He didn’t like arguments, and this fight felt too one-sided since the other party wasn’t there to defend himself. Also, it wouldn’t be fair for John to defend Brian when he didn’t like him a lot to begin with.

Freddie, oblivious, wouldn’t stop talking. John just sat at the floor.

He had found a box with some of Freddie’s clothes next to the amp.

He didn’t tell.

_(The buzz hadn’t stopped)._

* * *

 

Brian glanced at his wristwatch for the fourth time in the last hour. It was ten minutes past 3 am. The last time he had stayed up this late, he scratched his left arm raw with anxiety. Ever since, he kept his nails perfectly trimmed.

The toilet in the next room was flushed. Brian sighed.

“You alright in there?” he asked. He heard Roger clear his throat and then the sink running. He stood up to pour him more water.

After a few moments, Roger reappeared, his face wet and the hair around his forehead dripping. He glared at the glass of water Brian was offering with disdain.

“I think this isn’t a fair trade. Not even knocking you out is worth this.”

The taller man resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He wanted to ask when was the last time Roger had been sober, but the question died on his lips.

Don’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answer to.

( _It’s you. You broke him_.

 _No_ , Brian protested. _He did this to himself._

 _Maybe, dear. But why weren’t you there to stop him?_ )

Brian shook his head. “Drink up. We need to get going, if you can think straight now.”

“I’m fine. I wasn’t that drunk to begin with,” Roger complained, grabbing the glass and gulping it down anyway. He was just a little under the effect, or at least that’s the only difference he could tell. “What is it you want to show me?”

“At the house,” Brian answered firmly, surveying the situation. He couldn’t risk an intoxicated Roger doing anything stupid upon seeing Freddie and John, much less any kind of physical damage to their already traumatized and banged up former bandmates.

Roger wasn’t known for being violent, but could be a loose cannon, and Brian never liked taking chances. “Let’s give it another thirty minutes. Here, have more water.”

Roger refused this time. “Fuck off. I can’t keep going to piss every five minutes. And water doesn’t do shit,” he paused, searching for anything to eat instead. “Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?”

“Water helps your dehydrated brain think,” Brian defended, “I don’t want you to drive. I just want you to be _aware_.”  

“I’m _aware_ you’re a wanker.”

Brian rubbed his face exasperatedly. Talking to a beaver would be easier. “Alright, then. You’re right, you’re as alert as you’re going to get, since you have fried up your brain.”

The blond intended to complain but was cut off by his coat landing on his face. He peeled it aside, raising an eyebrow. “It’s April. It’s not cold outside.”

“For fuck’s sake. _Yes, it is_! Now put it on!”

It’s April and it’s still cold outside, it’s not that he’s old!

* * *

 

Freddie had fallen asleep on the couch. It wasn’t intentional; he was still dressed with an old pair of chinos with a good portion of the legs rolled up, and a white button-down shirt.  He felt preposterous. It could have been worse, though. Brian had offered a track suit first.

Luckily, Freddie did find some of his old clothes. His gorgeous grey rabbit-skin jacket was almost intact, except for the musty smell of stored clothes. He had left two laundry baskets full of the clothes he had salvaged next to the telly, so when Brian arrived he could take them to the washing machine.

Said telly was still on, displaying noise with a dim roar, but John watched mindlessly. He sat at the floor in front of Freddie’s couch, wearing a very large set of woven pajamas. Freddie practically forced them on him, gushing incessantly about how adorable he looked in them. Granted, ‘adorable’ was not a compliment John pursued, but they were comfortable enough and he didn’t want to annoy Fred further. He hadn’t been amused by the clothes stunt.

John spared another look at the clock. It was close to 4 am and Brian still hadn’t returned. An uneasiness settled at the pit of his stomach and his breathing hitched at any or every sound that came from the street. He didn’t know this older Brian, with short hair and twice the wrinkles, who shied away from contact with Fred and who hadn’t smiled one since they showed up. Brian and John were never the closest, but the first word on John’s mouth when asked to describe the guitarist had always been _warm._

Brian who would ask how you were, if you needed anything, who would apologize in their names when someone on the band was being difficult – but never when they were rightfully rude, as he would put it – John had only seen Brian furious twice in the three years since they met, and it always was about something he considered _unfair_.

Unfair, such a convoluted word. John couldn’t put a finger on exactly the meaning Brian choose for it, either inconsiderate or dishonorable. Maybe a self-righteous mixture of both. For all his kindness, there was a streak of sanctimoniousness that often drove John mad. He couldn’t be all good, after all.

But he always knew how important Queen was to Brian. All the effort, time and choices he made, him who always had the most to lose. Freddie was born a rock star, and Roger’s looks and approach to life would had eventually gotten him there or at least close. But responsible, sensible Brian? John thought it _unfair_ that he was the one who got left behind.

Freddie mumbled and turned in his sleep. John finally felt the grogginess creeping, and laid his head back into the couch’s cushion, next to Freddie’s feet. At the back of his mind, he knew he would wake up with a broken back, but didn’t fancy to move and also, it felt too intrusive to take hold of Brian’s bed again. This would do.

The sound of keys and the ting of the door opening startled him. He wasn’t the only one, as Freddie stirred and kicked his head with surprise, sitting up at once.

“ _What’s there_? Who’s there?” a half-aroused Mercury demanded. It took a few seconds for his vision to unblurry, and then “Brian! About fucking time. Do you know what time is it? We _were_ worried sick – “

“ _Piss off.”_

Freddie’s admonishment was cut off by a high-pitched, velvety voice that could only belong to one Roger Taylor. Freddie had asked about Roger alright, but didn’t expect to see him so soon. Besides... he squinted, and swung his legs over the edge of the couch hurriedly –  John’s head receiving another smack – to get to his feet.

“Is all of this a joke?” Freddie’s tone contained danger, “because Roger looks exactly like the last night I saw him.” Disheveled hair, sleep deprived blue eyes and the perfume of alcohol, not a day older than 25 years old.  

Roger was staring rather boorishly. “Is it?” he turned towards Brian, flicker of anger in his eyes and his voice reaching higher notes, “Is this a fucking joke, Brian? Did you drug me or something? What the hell is happening?”

Brian, standing midway from the couch where Freddie and John were, and the door where Roger remained, was also at the center of two very incensed glares. Even John had stood up, rubbing the side of his head meekly. Roger was inching closer and Brian knew he had seconds to explain the situation before the promised strike arrived. “Listen, Roger, _Fred – “_ Roger’s eyes were looking crazier, and Freddie was opening his mouth to protest, “I’m not lying to any of you. Everyone in here is real. If you could just calm down and listen – “

“Bollocks!”

Roger swung his arm and time stood still as Brian closed his eyes, ready for the impact. He bit his lower lip in anticipation, swearing not to show any sign of pain. He deserved the punishment, and was willing to atone in silence.

He waited for a couple more seconds but the hit never came. Instead, a groan and then a gasp silenced the room. A voice – Freddie’s – wailed and something – someone – fell to his feet. Brian opened one eye, expecting to see Roger on the ground after losing his balance like the drunken twat he was. But the person at his feet had a smaller frame, brown hair and was wearing his favorite pajamas.

“Shit, John!” Brian’s shriek broke the terrified quiet as he kneeled next to the boy, trying to get John’s hand out of his face to inspect the damage, “whatever you did that for?!” his anger was misplaced, but mixed and maxed with worry. For the second time in two days, the younger’s face was painted with blood.

Freddie woke up from the stupor and jumped over the coffee table, landing next to the two of them and slapping Brian’s hands away. “Are you an idiot, Deaky?” he scolded, sliding John’s head to rest on his lap to inspect the injuries himself, “Oh, good, it’s just your lip – just your lip!” he announced, almost happily, but then in the same breath turned towards Roger and barked, “you busted his lip, you half-witted wanker!”

Roger’s eyes were popping out of his sockets, and he held his attacking fist in a tight, remorseful grip. He tried to speak but could only sputter nonsense. _It wasn’t supposed to be him!_ his mind raged. _It wasn’t supposed to be him_.

_He isn’t supposed to be here._

Why?

Why?

“Why?” someone finally asked. Brian, of all people, who left and came back without anyone noticing, bringing ice chips wrapped in a towel for John. He kneeled besides Freddie, who didn’t bother to shush him away this time. Brian reached out to trace the limits of John’s wound, before pressing the improvised ice pack delicately against his skin.

John kept his eyes closed, breathing evenly. There was a time when pain hadn’t been such a constant in his life, but now it seemed those were the years he left behind. “Two against one isn’t fair,” he finally explained, words muffled by the ice pack, “it’s not anyone’s fault,” he peered over Freddie, and slowly began to straighten up. Brian and Freddie offered their help, but John refused.

“Deaky – " Roger, with an aching hand that could serve as proof that everything was real, found his voice and put one foot forward, needing to apologize, but all John did was glance at him and shake his head.

“I want to be alone.”

No one moved to stop him as he made his way towards Brian’s room. No one spoke either. Brian put his head on his hands, massaging his temples. That was exactly what he had tried to avoid. He shouldn’t have brought Roger so soon. Maybe he shouldn’t have told him at all.

“Stop torturing yourself.”

Freddie’s voice, so much like the one that lived inside his head, broke his self-induced agony. Brian raised his head and his eyes met Freddie’s, all the anger in those brown irises replaced by mild shame. Fred offered a half smile, sighing and twirling one hand in the air as if to dissipate the tension.

“Deaky’s right, I’m sorry, Bri. You’re doing what you can. I shouldn’t be making things harder for you.” He looked the other way, uncomfortable at apologies. Freddie was still a diva through and through. Turning again, he perched his hands at his hips and marched towards Roger, “You, on the other hand – how did you manage to stay gorgeous? Smoking was supposed to ruin you, and I would become the prettiest one.”

Roger stumbled back two steps. “You’re _alive?”_

“Oh, I see,” Freddie frowned. “It made you an idiot.”

“ _Fred_.” Brian rose to his feet, a tad numbed about how fast everything was happening, but couldn’t leave Roger alone to face the storm. “Take it down a notch. It’s harder for us. To you it’s only been two days.”

“ _It’s harder for you?”_ Freddie dismayed.

Knowing he had phrased that wrong, Brian continued. “You know what I mean, and please, let’s not discuss that right now. Let’s agree is hard for all of us instead. Rog, I wish I could give you a better explanation. But all I know it’s that they are real, because the chance of both of us seeing the same hallucination is null. And, as you’ve confirmed for yourself, they _bleed_ , so they’re alive.”

Freddie was now officially offended. “We’re not some bloody ghouls! I’ve told you what happened after the explosion – and you were supposed to be looking into that, not fetching this unintelligent scoundrel!”

“Watch it!” Roger might still be incredulous, but didn’t care for the insults.

“That’s enough, both of you.” Brian was reminded of why he didn’t like people. They were exhausting. “I had to tell Roger, Freddie. He’s part of the band. Part of this,” he gestured between the three of them, trying to make a point. “We were friends.” Another pause. “We are all we have.”

The weight of Brian’s last words shifted the mood, carrying the remembrance of the better times spent together. Roger fidgeted, embarrassed. It was still too much to wrap his head around, but there was one priority.

“I need to apologize to Deaky.”

* * *

He lingered for a moment longer before deciding to knock on the door. The seconds without a response felt like a thousand kicks in the stomach, his feet ready to bolt out if needed. His throat felt dry. His hands ached to hold a bottle.

“Who’s there?”

And then, somehow, hearing the voice of a 22-years-old boy he thought only belonged to his memories was more heartbreaking. It sent him reeling. He felt like downing an entire bottle of vodka.

( _Roger is back to the day when the sky crumbled down on him and his dreams shattered; a decade later, he still wasn’t sure when was the exact moment he understood he might as well had died too._

_He had been dead for so long, the living realm had become his purgatory. Neither here or there, neither hope or doom, life became the repeating bridge of a dull song that never reached its crescendo.)_

“It’s me. Rog.”

There was no answer, and then the blond insisted, “please, Deaky. I want to apologize.”

“Well, I didn’t want to get punched.”

At least the voice sounded nearer. Roger held his breath.

“Say you won’t try to hit any of us again.”

He could almost laugh, _almost_ , if this scene wasn’t so bizarre and if part of him still thought all this had to be a dream. Whether this was a good dream or a nightmare was still a toss up.

“I won’t hit you. I’m calm. See? Well, you can’t see, _but I’m calm_. My hands are out of my pockets. I can put them up if you want.” Desperate to be believed, he put his hands up immediately, as if John could see through the door.

A minute passed by. Slowly, the door cracked open.

Then younger man had his arms crossed in front of his chest and a scowl on his face. His image still struck Roger so hard he almost had to pinch himself.

“Would you please stop looking at me as if I were a ghost?”

“Who says you aren’t?” Roger mumbled and had to stop the door from closing on his face again, “No, wait, stop. I’m joking. C'mon. You could take a joke ten years ago.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

A smile was finally creeping on the blue-eyed man. Roger still felt like he wanted to run away from this madness but thought maybe, just maybe, there was a small chance this could all be happening.

“You little fucker. I’ve missed you.”  

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to update this on saturday but then NFL saturday games happened and my Broncos broke my heart for another year. Also, did you know that in spanish "in" and "on" and sometimes "at" are the same word, "en"? I can spend hours trying to confirm I've used the correct preposition. I'm sorry if I still suck at it.
> 
> Ugh. To be honest, I didn't like how this turned out. The scene of their reunion and the last scene are what gave me this whole idea, and now I feel like I botched this. Haha. Well, I hope you don't find it too terrible - and the flow can pick up speed now that they're finally together. 
> 
> Also, I think there's some tumblr boycott going on, but since it's the only place I can connect with the fandom, if you'd like to talk some queen or anything in general, I'm at messismessing.tumblr.com. I don't normally post anything about this story but I do reblog everything Deaky.


	4. Chapter Four

The next morning, John woke up to three misfortunes. 

One, if he moved another inch he would be saying hello the very uninviting, hard and cold floor. 

Two, the pain of his bruised lip added to the discomfort of the non-stop buzzing on his ear. 

And three, Roger´s snores would chase away even the bravest herd of elephants. 

The recollections of last night came back slowly. First, of course, was Roger’s arrival. He raised his head slightly, peering over his shoulder to observe said drummer, noticing his limbs spread all over the bed except the little space where John himself was. Still fully dressed, stinking of vodka, cigarettes and a broken heart, he was even drooling into the pillow. John wondered how the groupies that used to follow him like puppies ever found that charming. 

The memories kept rolling back. Roger’s fist connecting with his face, which lead to Roger knocking on Brian’s room door and to finally, Roger beating the resistance out of John with only six words. Ensuing, the rest of the night was filled with  _ Roger. _ John remembered opening the door and relinquishing himself, for it was Roger who did all the talking.  He said he was sorry in ten different phrasings and two other languages, but failed to make a pause to allow John to accept his apologies. 

After, Roger ranted. 

He was always very good at it. Even better than Freddie, if John was to make a comparison out of them. He had a knack for it, and would somehow bewitch (and bitch to) anyone who listened into taking his side, like a snake enchanter. Roger had the looks, the voice and the eloquence, even if every third word was preceded by a “fuck” or “shit”, his verbal dance still carried the assailable audience to the point of giving him everything. The attention, the reason, and in the case of some people, themselves. 

He also cried. For this, John had been thoroughly unprepared. Yet again, Roger robbed him of any opportunity to do anything. He sobbed, cursed and grieved, and he blamed. Brian’s name rolled off his tongue with gentle belligerence, showing how split he felt in understanding Brian’s own turmoil but bitter about the lack of reciprocity from the guitarist. 

_ He shut me out, Deaky. I never understood it. He took all there was left of Freddie and you, and I think a part of me as well, and decided that was the end of the book. How do you do that? _

John had opened his mouth, but Roger answered himself.

_ Aye, for a bloke like him, having everything you wanted slip through your fingers and out of your control must have been the worst fucking agony. _

_ I worried he’d kill himself, Deaky. The night after your accident, I dreamed of waking up and finding him half-hanged. Half, y’know, ‘cause he’s so tall, but I swear, the way his eyes went out after we found out what happened, it’s as if someone tore apart his soul.  _

_ I wanted to help him, I did. He didn’t let me. _

And through the emotional storm Roger was pouring on him, John withered. More than once had he tried to say,  _ well, one moves on and that’s it _ , remaining ashamedly unmoved and unaffected by the tales of the years of his absence and its repercussions. He did his best to listen, and that seemed to be enough for the blue-eyed blond, but for most of the night after the waterworks began, John regretted opening the door. 

When Roger took hold of the bed, and quite literally curled up and cried himself to sleep, John watched. There, through ugly and blabbering sobs,

_ (I tried. I did. _

_ Why did this happen? _

_ Fuck Brian. _

_ And fuck you as well for dying.  _

_ Is this happening for real? _

_ I am crazy, right?  _

_ God, help me. I’m so tired.  _

And ever so softly:  _ I don’t think I can do this again _ .)

he lied next to Roger, in silence, just a quiet companion to his suffering. A real, red-blooded, flesh and bones ghost. 

_ (This wasn’t the first time Roger had fallen asleep while talking to the memories of those who lived only in his head.)  _

John sighed. He decided to roll off the bed gently and get some tea. 

* * *

The kitchen table was already occupied by Freddie, who sat staring dully into the abyss with one cold tea cup in front of him. John could tell he hadn’t slept, heavy-lidded eyes and an unconscious pouting, seemingly stuck at half a sigh. He had a brief moment of lucidity, slapping himself weakly and rambling under his breath.

John chose that moment to reveal his presence. “Morning, Fred.”

The black-haired man perked up. “Ah, Johnnie. Good, you’re up. How did you sleep?” 

Ignoring the chills after hearing that nickname – no one ever called him that – John made his way to the kettle, to fill it up with more water for himself. 

“I slept well, but  _ Ro _ – “

“Listen, dear, we have to have a serious talk. Please, take a seat.” Freddie interrupted, his brows burrowing in concentration. John only just managed to turn on the kettle before following his older bandmate’s instruction. The tone was serious and that worried John. It had to be something about Brian, since he was nowhere to be found and Freddie looked as solemn as he’d ever seen him. 

Freddie took a deep breath as he drummed his fingers against the table. “I’m really sorry about everything that’s happened to you lately. Since the moment when Brian made you come with me to fetch my passport, to Roger being a barbarian last night. We all should have been more careful. But I guarantee, John, we’ve never wanted to hurt you. Neither me, nor the Brian and Roger  _ I knew _ .” 

John didn’t expect or require an apology. He sat, drowsy eyes, and shook his head. “Fred, I told you last night. It’s nobody’s fault. They’re…” he racked his mind for a word to describe their predicament, but none came to mind. No surprise Freddie was always beating him at scrabble, “it’s just been accidents.” 

Accidents was actually a very mild way of describing their odyssey, and the word hung in the air like a numbing mist. Freddie coughed, as if irritated by it, and John noticed the lost of flicker and energy on his moves. After years of wondering if possible, finally he was watching a powered down version of larger-than-life Freddie Mercury. 

Or so he thought. 

“Well, as long as you’re aware that we mean no harm,” the tone of Freddie’s voice got dourer, but a look of resolution took over his eyes, “what we’ve got to talk about is the bed custody. I’m sorry, kid, but I can’t do another night at the couch. You can’t pull this crap on me again. So unless someone tries to de-clutter and thoroughly decontaminate that other room, which I frankly think it’s impossible, I’m taking the bed,” then, as an afterthought, Freddie added, “You’re welcome to join me but under no circumstances are you ever to keep it to yourself or replace me with fucking… fist-friendly Roger.”

_ Fist-friendly  _ didn’t sound like a term John wanted associated to anyone he slept in the same bed with. “He started crying. I couldn’t throw him out,” he explained, oblivious to the blush spreading through his face, “apparently, he’s traumatized by it. He told me Brian kicked him out of here.” 

Surprisingly, those weren’t news to Freddie. “Yes, I know. Brian told me. It’s quite thorny, I wouldn’t advise you to meddle into it.” he shifted in his place, unpleasant ideas running through his head, “or do I sound too egotistical? We’re the cause of what happened to them, after all. Aren’t we?” 

“Honestly,” John sighed, “I wouldn’t think I was that important to them. I’m just the bass player.” 

“Ah, yes, our very own quiet bass player and resident electronics wizard,” Fred looked down at his nails, examining them, “very adequate since you’re a fucking insensible robot. Smoking did make Roger an idiot, going to you for comfort, of all people,” he groaned, annoyed. 

The lack of initial response from John aggravated Freddie more, but his caustic reprisal and every other complaint died on his lips after the bassist finally spoke. 

“I think that was very smart. He knew I would be the only one who would shut up long enough to listen to him at all.” 

Freddie’s tea was still cold. He drank it anyway. 

* * *

The throbbing pain in his head was making it almost impossible to continue reading, but Brian soldiered on. He hadn’t sleep for a minute that night, staying awake with Freddie at his side. They didn’t talk much, but their mutual silence said all the words Brian needed to hear, sung at the compass of his company.

One of the few twist of fates that soothed Brian’s mind, was that no matter how far apart in years and circumstances, the souls that are kindled to yours will always remain so. 

But for all Freddie quietly supported him, the few words he spoke were to remind the both of them that they still needed to find out what had happened. For as miraculous as their reunion was, and for as much as Brian was glad to see them, they weren’t meant for this time. 

Underlying, Brian understood: We need to go back, this isn’t where we belong. 

His university’s library was a place he knew like the back of his hand. Here was where he preferred to sit while reviewing his student’s papers, when he had too much work to do and needed to focus, or simply where he liked to spend whatever free time he had. He wasn’t expected to engage in any social interaction, and even the voices in his head would leave him alone as he immersed himself into the words he read. 

But this headache. 

The only explanation would be that karma did exist and now he was being punished. For what, he had no idea, since there were multiple reasons for him to merit this torture. On the top of his head, he could name three, their full names and current whereabouts. 

The letters in the paper he was trying to read started to blurry and hop off the page, and Brian blinked twice but they wouldn’t stop. 

“Professor May! I was told you’d taken some time off. What a pleasant surprise!” 

The voice wasn’t loud, but to Brian, it sounded like someone had built a wall of amplifiers just behind of him. He fought the instinct to cover his ears, since that would be seen as incredibly rude, and he didn’t need any extra bad karma to further his misery. 

“Hello, Miss Dobson,” he weakly waved, coercing his face into an educated smile, “There is some stuff I needed to do.” 

The librarian, a pretty, friendly, middle-aged woman called Anita, left the stock of books she was carrying on the corner of Brian’s table, and innocently peeped over the title of the books and papers he had grabbed to read. Her right eyebrow perked up, quizzical. 

“’The paradoxes of time travel’?” she recited, and Brian could tell she was biting her lower lip to suppress a laugh, “This is most unlike you, Professor May. You’ve always been into serious literature.” 

_ Perfect _ , he thought. While he had always liked Miss Dobson and was grateful for the times she turned a blind eye to him borrowing more books than the allowed number, or how she very seldom scolded him for failing to return some of them, and  _ her hair _ – those gorgeous fluffy auburn curls that brought a longing he couldn’t quite figure out – he still didn’t want to explain himself to her. 

“A student asked me a couple of questions and I wanted to research more about it,” he settled, breaking the eye contact to concentrate back on his paper. 

She finally chuckled. “You’re too good to them, Professor. They’re lucky to have you.” 

“I would hardly call it luck,” Brian muttered. He really wanted her to go, but didn’t want to seem desperate or rude. There weren’t many people he socialized with, and burning a bridge with the woman in charge of his favorite place away from home didn’t sound like a good idea. 

With the next throbbing on his head, which felt like a hammer’s stroke, an idea came to his mind. “Actually, Miss Dobson, I was wondering if I could ask a favor from you. There are newspaper microfilms on the second floor, am I correct?” 

“They are actually in the basement,” Anita answered, curious. She seemed about to sit down, but Brian was relieved to see she didn’t. “Would you like me to look for anything in specific?” 

“I’d very much appreciate it,” he said. “If it is not too much trouble for you.” 

Brian had become numb to a lot of emotions in the last couple of years, but there were still some things, like the smile in Anita’s face, that stirred the dormant sensibilities within him. Bright and sparse reminder that maybe, just maybe, there were a few people out there who weren’t too tiring to be around. Just not right now.

“None at all,” she chirped eagerly. “Date or topic?” 

“April 13, 1974. The Heathrow explosion.”

* * *

When Roger opened his eyes, his own misfortune sat at a corner of the bed with his arms and legs crossed and the most poignant look of disappointment on his eyes. Like a living nightmare, the specter reached his arm across the space separating them and touched his shoulder with its icy, long and black nail polished fingers.

“You’re dead,” Roger recited. 

Freddie stroked a few blond strands away from Roger’s blue eyes. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Have we? I only remember Brian dragging me here, and then you demons popping out of nowhere,” he cleared his throat, holding still while Freddie played with his hair, “I’ll give you this. You feel real.” He lifted the hand he had hit John with, observing his slightly bruised knuckles “Where’s the other one? John? Has he vanished?” 

“If only,” Fred grumbled. He pulled back his hand, resting it over his knees. “No, he’s trying to clean the other room. Said he needed something to do.” He might have instigated John a little, but still. “It’s past 3 pm. I started to worry about you.” 

“That’s alright. It’s actually quite early for me,” non-chalantly, Roger ran a hand through his messed locks, stretching his back as much as he could. It barely arched and he ended up gasping. “Fuck. I think I broke something. This bed is terrible.” 

“It’s better than the couch,” Fred whispered, mildly irritated. “Are you going to listen to me?” 

Roger took a while to answer. The battle inside his head raged; on one side, there was the part of him who wanted to believe, the one who remembered last night perfectly and understood, the part that went after John and apologized and emptied his sorrows on him. The part that, for a few minutes, saw a light at the end of the arduous, dark and lonely tunnel he had been walking on.

But the other side, the one hardened by the years and envenomed by the vices and the substances and the cheap and brief substitutes he found along the way, it still refused. It whispered, 

_ You can’t do this. Walk away before you break.  _

But the other side, his carefree self that still maintained dreams bigger than the world, sick and tired of the chains that weighed him down, barked back, 

_ Nothing can be worse than who you are right now.  _

_ At least there’s a chance. Listen to him.  _

Roger’s chest tightened. “How?” 

“We aren’t sure. Brian’s gone to investigate, but I don’t have high hopes of finding anything in a library.” Freddie accepted. He turned his head, looking at the window, which showed the familiar yet strange world he couldn’t decide if this was where they were meant to be, “I remember waiting for the bus with John, thinking about how I was going to tell Brian my passport wasn’t at my parents, and then there was this huge… explosion. Directly behind us.” 

“Yeah, the airport,” Roger chimed in, finally sitting up, but his eyes avoided Freddie’s at all cost, “we heard it from here, I swear. We didn’t know what it was, ‘till a couple hours later.” 

“Brian told me it was a cargo plane. Took the whole cargo terminal with it.”  

“Yeah, I think so, yes,” Roger mumbled. The details were all fuzzy. Very little did he look back on that day, “it did seem like a bigger explosion than just a regular plane, didn’t it? I remember thinking that.” 

Freddie huffed. “It felt like the whole Earth exploded, darling.”

“Right,” Roger grinded his teeth and remained silent for a few seconds. “They actually never said how many people died, you know? We – well, it was Brian, honestly – when you never made it back, he started panicking, firstly about the tour, of course, but then I guess he got this sort of… dread? He was like “no, something’s happened to them, Rog, Deaky wouldn’t let Freddie stall”, he kept repeating it and ringing your folks,” there, as if illuminated, Roger’s eyes widened, “hey, if you’re back – and if you’re real – what about your parents? And John’s mom? Aren’t you gonna tell ‘em?” 

That had been one of the first topics Brian and him discussed the morning after their arrival. It was still quite a sore point. “No, not immediately. We figured it wouldn’t be wise to get them involved until we knew more. Or if at all.” 

“What do you mean, if at all?” the blond inquired, confused. He remembered attempting to phone John’s mother, but could never muster the courage to finish dialing the number.  _ Brian did. Brian did everything,  _ he thought. 

The expression on Freddie’s face grew uncomfortable, and his foot tapped impatiently against the floor. “Well, dear,  _ you know.  _ This isn’t really – this isn’t our time. We obviously didn’t die that day. We’d like to, er, go back. And it’d just seem too cruel for them, for our parents  _ here,  _ to have us back just to lose us again.” 

In Roger’s eyes, Freddie couldn’t look more demonic right now. “Too cruel for them but not for us?” 

“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t intend to let you know either. It was Brian who decided it,” he saw the drummer open his mouth to spew some venom, he was sure, but Fred raised one hand to demand silence, “I don’t think he meant to harm you, or bring you down with him, or whatever your resentful, twisted mind is telling you. I think he realized he wouldn’t be able to go through with this without you. I think he realized it was very idiotic to lose contact with you in the first place.” 

“Of course you would defend him,” Roger breathed.  _ Of course you would leave us again,  _ he couldn’t say. 

Freddie was used to arguing with Brian, but Roger and him rarely quarreled. He wondered how much of Roger’s memories were affected. “You can still walk out if it bothers you this much, but we’d like you to stay.” 

Roger wasn’t sure. The whole affair spelled disaster for him already, no matter the choice he made. 

“Maybe I could take it one step at a time,” he suggested. 

As much as Freddie wanted Roger around, he couldn’t let him fool himself. “Roger, dear. I don’t think it is going to get easier.” 

The blond rubbed his eyes tiredly, letting out a groan that meant “I know”, but there was nothing else for him to say. He was tired, drained, both physically and emotionally, and there were too many unknowns. 

“At least I’ll know where I stand, Fred. This is too much to process. It took me a long while to accept you were gone in the first place,” he admitted. He wasn’t sure he ever did. 

Freddie could only imagine, or try to. He patted Roger’s shoulder affectionally. “I know. I’m sorry. I wish I could also change it for you guys.”

Roger’s hoarse laughter made Freddie smile. Even more when the drummer’s hand held his own over his shoulder. 

“I’m afraid you’re too late for us. But it’s okay,” he reassured, calmly, “now finish your story. You’ve got to describe that old wanker’s face when you showed up here.” 

For a minute, even if none of them had any idea how this happened, they felt back in ’74, just two young lads making fun of their guitarist. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I uploaded this chapter at 3:00 am and I apologize, since I don't know what I was thinking (I probably wasn't). Now I've edited it, made it a litte less over-the-top (last scene). I can't function well when I don't sleep lol. Happy holidays!!


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